Day of Vodka and Velvet
by Quiet Time
Summary: Owen doesn't believe grief fits into a schedule. Ianto joins him on an unscheduled night of mourning.  Friendship, not a pairing.
1. Chapter 1

**This is the second instalment in the 'Days' series, but it's not dependant on having read that. **

Grief isn't a tidy thing. Owen's grief, in particular, tends to be messy and disorganized.

_Some_ people – a certain individual with a coffee fixation springs to mind - swan through life as normal, restricting their emotions to anniversaries, birthdays and the like. Making an appointment with mourning. Not Owen. _ His_ pain doesn't run to schedule. _He_ doesn't grieve only when the calendar says it's appropriate. _He_ doesn't fit the misery and longing into a nice neat twenty-four bundle that everyone else marks in their diaries.

It happens when it happens. Makes him a tad unpredictable, he has to admit, but that's not a bad thing. If you're all over prickles, like a thistle, people don't try to get close, and rarely try to touch. At least, they don't touch the parts that hurt.

So no, it's not a date in the calendar. It's so many other things.

It's stopping right in the middle of chatting up a sure thing, because the drink he's offered to pay for turns out to be one of those horrendous vodka/cranberry _pink _things that _she_ always made Owen buy when they had friends over.

It's waking up beside a random shag only to find, in the clear light of morning, that she's got the exact same shade of hair. Or the same eyes. Or sleeps with her hands folded _just that way_.

It's dropping a scalpel in the middle of an autopsy because once he's washed off the blood from the Weevil attack; he can see that the victim has a mole in the exact same place. He stares at the darkened patch of skin on a nameless, lifeless body and remembers. Remembers how even the lightest brush of fingers or lips just beneath that spot won him a breathless giggle that went straight to his heart. Not to mention his groin.

It's walking through a department store, likely as not looking for the alien hiding in the fitting room, and the world falls apart when one of those odious women in a sash shoves a scented card into his face. Owen knows nothing about the perfume industry and cares less, but in that second he discovers that Katie's favorite perfume is enjoying retail resurgence.

He used to know the name of it; he bought a bottle every Valentine's day after all. Now it's just another detail best left at the bottom of a glass.

But the glass, the forgetting, has to wait on Torchwood's leisure. Finish the autopsy, catch the alien, put the latest victim back together, patch up a team mate. Snark and sneer as if he's still in one piece, as if there wasn't a scream trying to escape along with every word. Leave the pain to burn at the back of his throat, along with the tears, until he can get home. Alone.

This is where it becomes just that tiny bit routine, because however it starts, this is how it ends. With Owen on his knees in the wardrobe of his spare room. And beneath his knees and flowing over his hands and pressed against his face, the velvet.

Flowing folds of velvet, lined with silk. As it caresses his cheek Katie throws aside the bridal magazines and announces she has no intentions of looking like a meringue on her wedding day. She's too old for that, she says, just to make him tell her again how she looks as young as the day they met. No tulle, no organza, not for Katie. Not her thing. No net petticoats, no hooped underskirt. Something simple, refined, classy.

So, the velvet. Soft, creamy velvet, smooth as her skin used to be. Clinging to her curves and sliding down her body like a waterfall. God, she looked beautiful, the day it came back from the dressmaker and he walked in on her trying it on.

Bad luck to see a bride in her dress before the wedding day. Superstition, maybe. Or maybe if he'd listened to the old wives tales, he'd have ended up with a wife who had a chance of growing old.

The velvet is soft, still, but creased from being unpacked and refolded. And it's darkened from white to cream to something almost yellow, though he prefers to think of it as gold, because he can't bear to get it stored away properly. There's a savage slash in the fabric down one seam, from the time Katie found it on a bad day, and the dementia led her to pick it apart so she could 'make a better one.' Owen remembers that day too bloody clearly. Later, in one of the ever-decreasing windows where Katie was Katie, they'd cried over the butchered dress as if were alive. Sobbing over it, both of them, as if it was flesh and blood she'd torn apart instead the seams of a dress they both knew in their hearts she'd never wear.

Those were the first tears to stain the dress. Owen adds more, every time.

It's usually the sight of the latest crop of tears darkening the fabric that brings him back to his feet. If there's any ritual to this thing at all, this is the point where the grieving ends and the forgetting begins.

Vodka, in her memory, but Owen doesn't stuff around with cranberry juice.

**Hope you enjoyed. There will be a second chapter, not sure when. **

**(For anyone thinking 'Where the hell is the next Breaking my heart chapter?' – this piece seems to have smashed the writers block so there should be something this week.)**


	2. Chapter 2

**This second part has been lurking on my hard drive for a while, so here goes. Hope you like.**

Jack finds him, always. Owen's not sure how, or even why. God knows, it's not only _those _days Owen shoots off as soon as the work's done. But somehow Jack knows, and by now Owen just accepts that Captain Frigging Harkness has some bloody weird radar or twisted sixth sense that tells him Harper's having a meltdown.

Jack doesn't say anything when he finds Owen, sometimes doesn't even sit near him. Just waits for whatever appears to be the right time to take him home. The method of getting home varies, in proportion to how much vodka has already gone down the Harper esophagus. If he's still at the morose stage, Owen goes meekly, occasionally blabbering on about tearstains on velvet, or why pink vodka makes him cry. Sometimes he's already into being belligerent, and it takes more effort. He's pretty sure Jack knocked him out more than once, not that he can remember the details. Once or twice he's even passed out by the time Jack arrives. The next morning Owen wakes up, alone, in his own bed. With no memory of getting there, and a post-it note on the fridge telling him to check his blood alcohol level before driving to the Hub.

Then Jack started bringing the Teaboy with him. The first time it happened, Owen didn't really know how to react. On the one hand, how _dare_ he bring his shag-of-the-week to something so bloody _personal. _One the other hand, Owen isn't the sort to grudge another bloke getting his rocks off. Jack shouldn't have to suffer because of taking the time to help a mate. And surely even Teaboy wouldn't put out if Jack dumped him and ran off after Owen.

There's a weird thing, though. When Jack swans in now, Owen looks over his shoulder for Teaboy. Teaboy tags along every time now, even if he and Jack are in one of the 'off' phases of their 'on and off' thing.

Jack always gets Owen home, and he's grateful for that. But Teaboy _helps._ Teaboy says the right things, even if Owen can't remember what they were by morning. And sometime during those dark nights, Teaboy turns into Ianto.

Owen isn't sure about Ianto. Because Ianto knows. God, Ianto_ knows_.

Ianto knows how it feels to love someone so much you'd happily let the world – no, stuff that, the _Universe; _drown as long as_ she_ floats.

Ianto knows, like Owen does, that it isn't a rational way to love. That, while you know it was the most amazing thing that ever happened to you, ever _will _happen to you, you'd never let yourself go there again. Because, next time, maybe you _will_ drown the world, or burn it, and go to hell laughing afterwards. Who in their right mind would risk that? No, too bloody dangerous.

But Ianto knows. Ianto knows that on some level you do, you really do, want to love that way again. That you _would,_ if you weren't such a coward.

Owen nearly did. He's not sure whether he's proud of that, or ashamed. Diane scared the living shit out of him. It wasn't grief he was hiding from in the Weevil cage, not completely. Or at least, he was hiding as much from having to admit he'd never have gotten into the plane with her. Not that she'd asked.

Ianto knows that. He put a bullet in Owen's shoulder because Ianto knew how far Owen would go, just to prove he wasn't that much of a coward. To prove he wasn't too afraid to fall in love again.

Ianto knows why Owen's too shit-scared to get any closer to Tosh.

But Owen knows, too. Owen's knows Ianto's new big secret. Not a cyberwoman this time, of course. Nothing in the basement, except possibly a metaphorical basement, and isn't that a big word for someone who's just drunk a bottle of Smirnoff?

It's ironic, it's bloody hysterically funny. Everyone thinks Owen's having a go at Ianto when he brings up the part-time shag thing. And he is, of course, but not in the way they all think.

You see, Owen knows that it's_ Ianto_ who keeps it part-time. It's Ianto, not Jack, who keeps just enough distance so he'll never fall over the precipice again.

Sneaky little bugger probably lets Jack think it's his own idea.

And therein, Owen believes, with vodka-induced clarity, therein lays the reason Jack keeps coming back to Ianto. The reason he always will keep coming back. Jack hasn't won yet, and Jack can't walk away from a challenge. Jack's too bloody arrogant to accept being second best, too arrogant even to consciously accept that's where he is. So Jack hangs in there, congratulating himself on his loyalty, not realizing he's trying his immortal best to knock a dead woman out of first place.

Oh yeah, Owen knows. And Ianto knows. They know the pain that festers too deep to ever be released. They know how it twists you, so that Torchwood becomes salvation instead of sacrifice. They see it in each other, those vodka-colored nights. And the knowledge burns.

Ianto turns back into the Teaboy by morning. And that's the way they both like it.


	3. Chapter 3

**I didn't actually plan to add any more chapters to this, but Lady Analyn suggested in a review that the boys should have a talk, and the idea got stuck in my head and wouldn't leave. So here it is, (well part of it, there's more in the works) and I hope it does the suggestion justice.**

* * *

It's one of those days. There was a bad one. Too close to home. Some poor sod possessed by an alien parasite, and wouldn't you know the damned thing lodged in the brain. And it killed the host when Owen tried to remove it. Déjà vu, in spades. At least it wasn't a woman.

Still, way too close. So here Owen is again, watching the pub swirl around him. About as drunk as he's going to get before passing out, so the Knights in the Black SUV should arrive any minute.

Owen contemplates the colorless liquid in the bottom of his glass. Maybe two mouthfuls left. He can have another sip, then. It's a matter of pride that he makes his keepers wait while he finishes his drink. Can't let them think he's actually waiting for them.

The vodka slides down smoothly. Owen's not surprised he can't feel the burn any more. He's far gone enough not to try standing up unassisted and his throat's numb. He hasn't had _that_ much tonight, but there's been a decent gap between bouts, and it seems to have affected the Harper tolerance levels.

He has no idea how long ago the last time was. Doesn't keep track. Less than a year, more than a month. Long enough to hope he was getting past this stage, that he wasn't finding a trigger so often. But once again Katie's dress lies crumpled on the wardrobe floor, waiting for his hung-over self to find and store it carefully away, until the bell tolls for the next round of self-flagellation.

Owen's grateful that he's at least trained himself not to try to put the dress away while drunk. The last time he did that, there was a day of penance involving a steam iron with accompanying weird-legged ironing board. Both of which he'd had to borrow from Ianto, Owen not being the sort to own anything so domestic as an iron. And even after Ianto morphed back into Teaboy he retained the tact not to mention it. Owen refuses to be grateful. He owes Teaboy nothing, except possibly discretion, and only selected instances of that.

The pub door creaks open with a sobering blast of cold air. Owen looks up blearily, and here's a new one for the booze goggles to interpret - he's seeing single. Ianto walks in alone. No Jack, no matter how hard Owen rubs his eyes and looks again. Unsettling, that. You just don't see those two apart any more. They come in pairs, like gloves.

Ianto shakes the rain off his coat and hangs it on a hook near the door. Eyes roam the room, settle on Owen huddled in a corner.

The other seat at the table screeches against the wooden floor. Owen used to wonder how Ianto knew the difference between the times he's ready to be taken home and the times he needs to talk. Jack never had the slightest idea, which was why he'd occasionally had to knock Owen out to get him home.

Owen doesn't wonder anymore. No point. Ianto knows everything. It's an unwritten law of the universe.

"Where's Tweedle-dum?" Owen asks, as the younger man settles into the chair.

Ianto raises an eyebrow. "I'm flattered. I'd have thought you'd save Tweedle-dum for me."

Owen waves his glass. "He's Tweedle-dum, you're Tweedle-dumber, see?"

Ianto chuckles softly. "You're actually amusing when you're plastered, did you know that?"

"Shameless flatterer," Owen grunts, tipping his glass to catch the final mouthful.

The barmaid approaches with a tray. Owen didn't notice Ianto order, but he must have, somewhere between the coat rack and the table. The barmaid's a bit of all right, but she'd been avoiding Owen for at least the last hour. Not that he blames her. He's well past the point where 'Responsible Serving of Alcohol' would allow him a refill, and should probably be thankful she hasn't had him thrown out yet.

There's a glass for each of them. Owen's might look like vodka, but Ianto's done this to him before, when he'd been at the belligerent stage, and he knows it's just water. Feels bloody good on his parched throat though.

Ianto takes a swallow of something straw-colored. Scotch, perhaps, or maybe brandy. The remains of Owen's powers of observation make a valiant attempt to focus. Ianto knocking back spirits on a mission to collect the drunken doctor doesn't bode well.

"So," Owen drawls, eyes fixed on Ianto's face. "Where is he?"

Ianto sets the glass down with a sigh. "Recovering," he answers.

Owen waves his glass at the other man, in a manner that might be threatening if the water wasn't sloshing onto the table. "From what?" he insists.

"There was a Blowfish," Ianto responds tiredly. "Who seemed curious as to whether he could get an entire clip into Jack's belly."

Owen grimaced. "Jack died then." A statement, not a question. No wonder Ianto's indulging in some steadying spirit tonight. A gut wound meant one of two things. Either Ianto held Jack through a slow, agonizing death, or he'd applied what used to be called the Mercy Thrust. Mercy Shot, you'd have to call it now. Either way, Ianto's earned a drink.

"He died," Ianto agreed. He's looking right at Owen but even drunk the doctor can tell the other man isn't seeing him. "It went for me, and Jack did the All-American Hero thing and threw himself in the way." Ianto tips his glass again. Owen watches the way his throat jerks as he swallows, and it isn't just the booze burning.

"Annoying habit of his," Owen agrees, raising his water in a toast to the absent hero. It's not the first time Jack's taken a hit for one of the team. Owen wonders if he's the only one who's noticed it happens more often when Ianto's the one in danger. And he also wonders if Ianto ever feels guilty that he can't - or is that won't? - fall in love with someone who'd die for him. And frequently does.

"You'd think," Ianto continues, taking another sip. "That I don't know how to fire a gun myself."

Owen gives his drunken best impression of shock. "You mean you can?"

For answer, Ianto gazes steadily at Owen's shoulder. Owen laughs the high-pitched, overloud laugh of the extremely sodden. He's really done a number on himself tonight. But he appears to be having an in-depth conversation here, so he attempts to concentrate on it.

"I still reckon you were aiming for my heart, that time," Owen says, trying to goad Ianto into he doesn't really know what. Just for the fun of getting a reaction out of Mr. Stuffed Shirt, perhaps.

Ianto only arches the eyebrow again. "I shoot straight enough to put one between that Blowfish's eyes tonight," he says. It'd be bragging in anyone else, but Ianto might be commenting on the weather rather than the fact that he's executed an alien. "Before it emptied the entire clip into him," Ianto adds. "Not that it made much difference."

Owen toasts Ianto, this time. But he still hasn't explained Jack's absence, and Owen's got the stubbornness of the inebriated to help him ignore the warning signs.

"Is he still dead?" Owen asks curiously.

Ianto actually sniffs. A sign of major offence. Owen adds a point to his side of the imaginary scoreboard.

"I wouldn't have left him alone if he was still dead," Ianto says, voice gritty with what Owen intends to assume is annoyance.

"But it was hard on him and he needed some rest," Ianto continues, daring Owen to disagree. Which he won't, having belatedly realised Ianto might clock him one to shut him up if he keeps on.

"So I said I'd come by myself," Ianto concludes. "I think he was relieved, to be honest." The blue eyes glint with humor. "I'm under orders to call him if you get difficult."

"Can't handle me alone, huh?" Owen asks smugly, downing the rest of his water.

"He'd like to think not," Ianto agrees. At which he contemplates his knuckles. "But I think I'd manage, somehow. You ready for home, yet?"

Owen might be drunk, but he knows better than to argue. He's seen the effect of Ianto's right hook. The pleasure he'd get from winding Ianto up isn't worth adding a bruised and aching jaw to the spectacular headache he'll have tomorrow.

-XXX-

The keys are being difficult, or else the keyhole's shrunk. Ianto sighs heavily and the keys disappear from Owen's hand. Ianto unlocks the door and stands back for Owen to enter. Owen snickers. It's like being on a date, and Ianto's the perfect gentleman.

This is the point where Jack used to throw him on the sofa and lock the door behind him. Ianto's far more solicitous. A born carer, as the girls say.

There's more water, with Vitamin B pills to take the edge off the approaching hangover, and help with knotted shoelaces. It's not like a date now, more like being a child, and it burns that Ianto's gentler than Mum ever was. Mum has a place in Owen's head hung with neon signs saying Don't Go There, so he doesn't. He'd love to distract himself by tormenting the Teaboy, but Teaboy isn't here. Ianto's in the spare room, brushing carpet fluff off the velvet.

Jack's never done that. Owen thinks he might've killed Jack for touching the dress. But Ianto's smoothing the dress onto its padded hanger and all Owen's fighting with is a sob of relief that he won't have to face it in the morning.

"In this wardrobe?" Ianto calls softly.

"Garment bag first," Owen croaks back.

There's the sound of a zip, and grief goes back into its bag, until next time.

**Like I said, one more in the offing. Thanks for reading.**


	4. Chapter 4

**This chapter is mostly setting the scene for 'the talk'. A bit of a filler really, to give them blokey time to work up to actually talking. Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

Owen's slumped against the arm of the sofa, wondering whether he'll be able to make it into bed tonight, or whether he'll just pass out right where he is. It probably depends on whether Ianto can be bothered extending his charity mission as far as dragging Owen into another room, 'cause right at the moment it's pretty unlikely he'll drag his arse off the sofa under his own steam. And of course he isn't going to _ask _for help.

He'll be fine on the sofa. Probably best to stay here, really, given that he's currently in that weird, wired, state where his body is knackered but his mind's still buzzing. Booze does that, much as people try to claim it relaxes them. As a doctor, Owen knows that's crap. Alcohol is a stimulant and the proof is racing around his brain right now. Even if Ianto does stop and help him across the flat into the bedroom, he'd probably just lie there for hours watching while the ceiling pretends it's a lava lamp.

The sound of footsteps says Ianto is headed for the door. Sofa it is then. Owen isn't going to look up as the other man leaves, though. Not going to say goodbye, or thank you. Or, God forbid, break down and ask the little twerp to keep him company for a bit longer.

No, the only way Owen can face work tomorrow is if he maintains the illusion that he only let himself be escorted home so as not to cause a fuss. It's a favor to_ them_, not to him. Owen doesn't need help. Owen doesn't need rescuing. He's fine, thank you very much.

The footsteps pause. "Anything else you need, Owen?" He'd kind of expected the offer, but he'd assumed it would be delivered in that fake-polite 'please don't take me up on this' tone. Only it's not. It sounds suspiciously genuine, maybe even hopeful.

Now_ that_, thinks Owen, is odd. Ianto's done his duty. He should be eager to get the hell out of here and get back to Jack, shouldn't he?

But look at him (not that Owen's looking, mind) dragging his feet on his way out. It occurs to Owen - possibly as a product of his over-stimulated brain - that Ianto is in fact stalling for time before he has to go back to Jack.

The notion brings Owen's head up, like a hound on a scent, which is an amusing analogy, except he hasn't decided if he's a wolf scenting prey or a St Bernard on a rescue. Something's not right, though. Something's off about the whole night, and it's not just Owen's stomach.

Ianto's just had his - err, whatever the hell Jack is to him - die in his arms. And resurrect, of course. Traumatic, regardless, and the poor bloke's alone in the Hub. Owen would bet half his liquor cabinet that Jack sent Ianto after him with one of those painted-on smiles and a booming fake reassurance. All of which Ianto could see right through, always had. Except tonight he'd smiled back, equally as fake, and left Jack alone while he ran off to minister to someone he didn't even like.

Owen would bet the _other _half of his booze that Ianto managed to make Jack think it was his own idea. Probably made the poor sap order him to do it, too. Sneaky sod.

But what sort of man _does _that?

A terribly screwed-up one, that's what. Owen's eyes narrow as he watches Ianto shift from foot to foot and quite suddenly he knows exactly what's going on here. Whatever happened with Jack tonight, it's pushed Ianto too close to the edge, and he's bolted. Owen _knows._ He's been there.

Diane had Owen on that very same edge. Balancing on one foot and terrified of stepping either way. She'd done him a favor, really, taking off in her plane, because now he'll never have to decide whether he was too much of a coward to step over the edge with her.

Stepping backwards was safer. Back to meaningless shags and too-loud laughter and enough booze to sleep without dreams. Forwards lay the abyss romance novels and Disney movies thrive on. It _is_ real, that kind of love. Owen knows it's real. He had it, he lived it, and when it died the best of him went with it. Ianto knows it's real too. He lived it and fought for it and nearly killed them all to keep it.

Yeah, fairytale love is real. But it never ends in happily ever after.

-XXX-

Ianto watches Owen watching him. There's suspicion in that blue gaze, and a touch of calculation. It's ridiculous and confronting and a bit like looking into a mirror, because Owen knows he's looking at Ianto exactly the same way. Ianto breaks eye contact and draws his lower lip between his teeth and if Owen doesn't say something soon the sorry git might chew right through it. This, as a doctor, as_ Ianto's_ doctor, is something he's duty-bound to prevent, so he throws out a lifeline. Or tosses a bone, he corrects himself, remembering his earlier analogy. Wolf or St Bernard – looks like he's a rescue dog tonight. And if that's the case someone's forgotten the keg of brandy.

"I could use some more water," Owen says offhandedly, waving his empty glass.

"I'll fill a jug," Ianto offers. "You'll probably drink more of it if you don't have to go looking."

Owen watches the Welshman depart on his errand with a much lighter step and now he knows beyond doubt Ianto's using him as an excuse to delay returning to Jack. But for some reason that's OK. Owen doesn't mind if Ianto stays for a while. Actually, he kind of wants him to. Not that Owen's lonely or anything. The bloke's obviously freaking out, which makes it his duty as Ianto's doctor to find out what's wrong.

"You should have some yourself," Owen calls, without much conviction. Ianto's barely had one glass of booze and he probably possesses that legendary Welsh tolerance for alcohol anyway. He's in bugger all danger of dehydration. It's just to give the bloke an excuse to stay, as he obviously wants to. Maybe even needs to.

Truth is; they need each other tonight. Trouble is; which of them can swallow their pride enough to admit it? Not Owen. He'd rather swallow another bottle of Smirnoff, heaving stomach or not. And he suspects, no, he knows, that Ianto's just as stubborn.

So Owen merely watches his fingers twist around each other and waits for a response. His weak excuse hangs in the air, almost visibly, as if someone had written it there in spray-paint, looking more like a plea every second. When he finally looks up again, Ianto's back in the lounge room, with a jug of water and spare glasses resting on a tray Owen didn't know he owned.

Ianto's looking back at him, with eyes that cut right in to his soul, and suddenly Owen doesn't care what Ianto sees there. Because, for the first time he can remember, the shutters are gone from over those painfully blue eyes, and it's all there for him to see, too, and he can't remember the last time someone's trusted him that much.

Of course they'll both pretend this isn't happening. 'Cause it isn't really. It's the booze. Sure, Ianto hasn't had any yet, but he will, if for no other reason than to provide a cover story. It's not like they actually _trust_ each other. Nothing they might accidentally say tonight is the truth anyway. Just winding each other up. They damn near hate each other, and they'll remember that. Tomorrow.

"Just have a bloody drink with me," Owen grouches. "Be a man instead of a babysitter, for gods-sake."

Ianto drops onto the sofa, flopping over the other arm like someone's cut his strings. "Got any Scotch?"

They smile. Twisted smiles, upside-down frowns, each offering the other a mental pact that tonight will never be spoken of, a pact signed and sealed through the quirk of an eyebrow.

**More soon. Next chapter's kind-of written. Thanks!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Ianto starts cracking this chapter. This fic just keeps writing itself and I don't know if I want to be responsible for where it ends up...I think that counts as a waiver, read on at your own peril. :D**

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Ianto gets his own drink, given that Owen's not reliable on his feet yet, and wanders across to gaze out of the window at the view which sold Owen on the apartment in the first place. Everyone loves that view. Women think it's romantic. Owen thinks it's a chick-magnet. Attracts 'em. Doesn't keep them coming back, though, which is pretty much how Owen wants it.

Owen watches out of the corner of his eye, wondering what, if anything, to say. But the silence isn't a comfortable one, and if they're going for awkward, well, Owen's got quite a knack for awkward conversation, and it's preferable to this particular sort of quiet, which seems to have prickles.

"I'd have thought," Owen says, having decided to start from the basics, "You'd be champing at the bit to get back to Jack."

Ianto turns slowly, and there's a glint in his eye which doesn't bode well. "He needed to rest," he says, "Which was hardly going to happen if I was there, was it?"

"Too much info," Owen grumbles, when he's finished spluttering into his water.

Ianto grins, and it makes him look his real age for a moment. "You asked," he says and turns back to contemplate Cardiff By Night, victory shouting from the curve of his spine beneath the suit jacket he's still wearing.

Owen stops watching Ianto's backview and frowns into his water, wishing it was something stronger. The comment was amusing but not illuminating. Insight appears to be evaporating and he wonders if maybe he's sobering up already. Try another tack, he decides. Might try for another drink, too.

"Why do you do it?" Owen asks.

Ianto turns to face him again, leaning back against the window itself, which no-one ever does. "What?"

"Stay with Jack," Owen elaborates. "Put up with his crap."

Ianto looks back at him with the same smile as before, except for the addition of angling eyebrows, which somehow makes it look less real. "The mind-blowing sex, perhaps?" he suggests.

Owen's bullshit indicator pings. Ianto doesn't talk like this. Ianto specifically doesn't talk to _Owen _like this. The whole evening is rapidly approaching the limits of Owen's understanding, because if Ianto doesn't want to tell him whatever's tearing him up inside tonight, then why's he still here? Owen's surprised to find himself wishing for Tosh. She'd know what to say. Except, if Ianto was going to talk to Tosh like this, he'd have done it by now, which brings the burden firmly back onto Owen's shoulders. Bloody hell, Owen thinks. When did I become Torchwood's Dr Phil? And why exactly do I give a shit if Ianto's goes meltdown? Oh yeah, I'm his doctor, that's why. More water. Or more booze. Whatever produces less clarity is fine with Owen just at the moment.

"Pull the other one," Owen grunts, reaching for the water jug. His hands shake a tiny bit as he pours himself a refill, but Ianto doesn't react to the sound of the glass rattling against the lip of the jug. Doesn't react, certainly doesn't offer to help, not that Owen wants him to. The jug's almost empty anyway, so it doesn't splash enough to spill over onto the table. "If that's all you wanted," Owen continues "you'd be with him now. Or you'd be with someone who'd give you your jollies without all the grief. So what is it?"

Ianto shrugs, turns back to the window. "Usual reason, I suppose."

Owen shakes his head, and there's still enough alcohol in him to enjoy the way it makes his brain wobble. "No," he insists. "That's not it. You don't love him."

Ianto moves away from the window, and at the look on his face Owen realises he might have just made an appointment for himself with that right hook after all. Maybe Ianto's not here to talk. He could have stayed just to avoid being with Jack. Not only has Owen's got the wrong end of the stick, but he's poked it into the wrong place. That last line went too far, because there are rules to this game they play. In these secret hours they acknowledge the fear they share, sure, but it's supposed to be a wordless acknowledgement. It's the foundation of every unspoken truce that they don't call each other on it, and he's broken it.

Owen braces himself and wonders if he'll be coordinated enough to dodge, but Ianto merely raises an eyebrow. "Never said I did," he answers mildly.

Owen snorts with what might be triumph. Looks like he didn't have the wrong end of the stick, after all.

"Never said I didn't, either," Ianto counters, with what might be defiance. Or challenge.

Owen's eyes focus sharply, his head stabbing with the effort, and he leans closer. He's gone this far, why not push it rest of the way? Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Or punched, as the case may be.

"Which is it, then?" Owen asks intently. He's not merely making conversation anymore and he's not just trying to help Ianto, either. It'd be worth a fist if Ianto shares the secret. How does a bloke pathologically afraid of falling in love manage to have a relationship with someone as intense as Captain Jack Harkness and not fall over the edge? Especially while tottering on the edge of it, as Ianto is tonight.

Owen could use that secret. Armed with it, he might actually man up and answer the questions in Tosh's eyes. He's not blind. He sees what Tosh doesn't say, hears what she doesn't ask, and ignores it, because it's easier that way. And he's gotten skilled at pretending it went right over his head on the rare occasions Tosh manages to squeeze one of the invitations out through her mouth. Pool tournament is Owen's best deflection to date, and it must've worked, as she hasn't come up with anything new since then.

Yeah, Owen's a coward and he's not sober enough to deny it. It's not fair to Tosh, what he's doing. He knows he should either tell her straight out it's not going to happen, or take her up on it. Thing is, he can't bear the thought of the first and he's too much of a coward for the second.

Tosh would take him over the edge, if he ever had the guts to follow. Owen tells himself she wouldn't be good for him, that he wouldn't be good for her, that it would never work, and most of the time, without the vodka stripping away the layers of self-deceit, he believes it.

Ianto hasn't punched him, at least not yet, or not with his fist. That glare packs its own punch, though. It occurs to Owen that the odd feeling around his mouth comes from the fact that he's grinning like an idiot at cracking the stone-face. Another point to Harper, if anyone's keeping score.

"I'm hardly going to tell you, am I?" Ianto says distantly, discomfited enough to finally take refuge in his scotch. Owen knows he's rattled, because Ianto's had a great gulp of a brand of scotch Owen wouldn't clean his drains with. His mum sent it for Christmas. Owen wondered at the time why she'd bought it, and concluded one of her neighbors must have foisted in on her, and she'd been glad to get rid of it. The 'don't go there' alert flashes, so Owen focuses his attention back on his guest. Just in time.

"Especially not before I've told him," Ianto continues vaguely. He must be registering what's in the glass now, his tongue flapping while his mind is busy analyzing the liquid on his tongue. So much for multi-tasking. Owen can clearly see the way Ianto's teeth sink into his lip at the slip. Ianto didn't mean to say that. Another point to Harper. He can stop trying to keep score now, 'cause he's won. Or he's lost count. Or because it doesn't really matter who wins when they're both such losers anyway.

But after a moment Ianto merely shrugs. "You won't remember this tomorrow," he notes, almost to himself, and takes another deep, steadying sip of his scotch. At which he'd have spluttered, if he was the type. "This is crap," he says accusingly.

Owen grins again. "It's the stuff I bring out when I'm not sharing it. Or for people I don't like." He pauses to savor the moment before delivering the rest of the line. "This qualifies for both, don't you think?"

"Arsehole." Ianto puts the glass onto the coffee table with a clatter. Doesn't even find a coaster first. Seriously rattled, then. "I don't have to stay here to be insulted. You can do that at work."

They both laugh at that, and things wobble back onto an even keel.

"The good stuff's in the kitchen," Owen announces, waving a regal arm. "On the highest shelf over the sink."

Ianto loads their glasses and whatnot onto the tray and carries it all into the kitchen. Over the rattling of glassware there's a metallic trickle as the cheap scotch makes its way into the drain, followed by the sweeter sound of crystal chiming as Ianto pours himself a refill. Of course he'd use the good glasses for the good booze. Quality deserves quality.

Owen waits for the musical clinking to repeat, but it doesn't. "What about me?" he calls plaintively.

There's a sniff in response. A disapproving one.

"I've had all the water," Owen argues. And he has. Ianto took the empty jug into the kitchen with him. Owen's as re-hydrated as he's going to get and even if he makes it to bed tonight he won't get much sleep between all the trips to the bathroom. "And I haven't even thrown up once," he adds virtuously.

"So you'd like to change that, would you?" Ianto calls back. Owen glowers at the sound of the cap being screwed back onto the bottle. Self-righteous little prat.

"I'll have you know," Owen says, with as much authority as he can muster, "that the 'hair of the dog' method of treating hangovers has a factual basis."

"They're your brain cells," Ianto calls back. "If you want to kill what's left of them, who am I to stop you?" But when he returns there's a second glass resting on the tray, with the bottle between them.

Things get a bit hazy after that. Who'd have thought Teaboy was such a good drinking buddy? But oh yeah, this isn't Teaboy, it's Ianto, and they're mates.

Mates. Not in the biological sense of course. Hmmmm. There's a thought.

* * *

_One chapter left, I think. Hope you're still enjoying it._


	6. Chapter 6

**Did I mention this fic keeps running off on me? This was supposed to be the last chapter, but the boys had other ideas.**

When you're this drunk, singing with your mates is the most natural thing in the world. Karaoke thrives on it.

"_Memories_," Owen warbles.

"_All alone in the moonlight,"_ Ianto's voice chimes in, and he's not half bad.

Owen placed a hand clumsily over Ianto's mouth. "Wrong words," he chides. "Decent voice though," he concedes, letting his hand drop away.

"Choir," Ianto says dismissively. "And they _are _the right words. Cats. For God's sake, Harper, have you no culture at all?"

"Yeah, yeah. Show tunes. Figures. But I meant the _other _one. Y'know." Owen stops to take in a deep breath before launching back into song. "_Misty water colored Memories._" Another pause, during which Owen lubricates his throat before continuing. "_Of the way we weeeeerrree."_

"That one," Ianto agrees. Pauses to lubricate his own throat, but he's still savvy enough to make it water this time. "_And could it be…" _

They sing along for a bit, together, until Ianto stops and fixes Owen with a annoyed stare. "Where do you get off having a go at me for singing show tunes when you've picked the theme from one of the soppiest chick flicks of all time?"

"Katie's favorite," Owen confesses, and he doesn't feel like singing anymore, so Ianto carries on alone. "_If we had the chance to do it all again."_ The singing stops when he reaches the last line, though, and he asks it instead. "Would we? Could we?" Pause. Sip. "Would _you_, Owen?"

The silence is profound, giving the hum of the refrigerator all the impact of a jet engine.

"Hell, yeah," Owen says eventually. "Wouldn't you?"

"Course I would." Ianto answers indignantly.

Owen leans forward intently. "Even if you knew how it'd turn out?"

"Hmmm." It's a deep question, and it deserves a sip of scotch. "Yeah," Ianto says eventually. "Even then. I couldn't leave her there, at the Wharf, strapped to the table."

Owen nods. He could use a fire to stare into, but the flat came with central heating, so he watches the alcohol swirl around his glass, instead.

"You?" Ianto prompts. "If Jack had gotten to you earlier, told you what was going on?"

It appears they're taking turns at this, and it's his go, but thinking is difficult, and thinking about Katie is harder still. Would he have let her go, knowing what would happen? No chance.

"Wouldn't let them operate," Owen concedes. "Not if I knew she wasn't going to survive it. I'd just make the most of what we had left, I reckon. What about you then, what would you do different?"

Ianto stares into the bottom of his glass. "I'd tell you instead of Tanizaki."

Their glasses clink. Their gazes lock. It's reassuring to know that they'll forget this tomorrow. Even if they don't.

-XXX-

Ianto wanders into the kitchen to refill the water jug. Owen occupies himself with staring intently at the digital clock on the DVD player, feeling a tiny spur of triumph when his eyes focus enough to decipher it. It's not even midnight yet. Must have started early, he reflects, even though he's got no idea what time he left work. Or what time Ianto found him at the bar.

Ianto returns and pushes a tumbler into Owen's hand. Water again, but he probably needs it. Owen sips obediently.

"Jack'll be looking for you," he comments.

Ianto flops back onto the couch and inspects the watch strapped to his wrist. "Probably still asleep," he decides. An eyebrow quirks in Owen's direction. "Unless that was my cue to leave."

Owen shakes his head, regrets the enthusiasm he put into it, and swigs some more water. "Thought he doesn't sleep," he muses, swiveling a questioning eye towards Ianto. "That's what he always says."

Ianto sniffs. "Just another story, that is. Of course he sleeps. Practically have to throw a glass of water in his face to get him awake, sometimes. Unless it's an alert," he adds, with the air of someone trying to be fair. "But yeah, he sleeps. He snores, too. _And _he drools."

They laugh together, but Owen thinks Ianto's laughter sounds a bit brittle.

"How bad was it?" Owen asks. "Jack, tonight."

Ianto shrugs, far too casually. "Bad. Slow. Too slow." He stops, swigs down a mouthful of scotch large enough to be a crime, and shudders from the burn. Serves him right. Booze of that quality ought to be savored, not swigged. "He asked me to kill him."

Owen sucks in a breath. He'd suspected that, but he hadn't expected Ianto to tell him about it, even if he hasn't said whether he actually did it or not. Something warns Owen not to ask, so he doesn't. Waits, instead.

"I didn't," Ianto says, just when Owen's given up hoping to hear more, which only goes to show you can never rely on that bloke to do anything you expect. "I can't," Ianto continues, eyes lifting back to the window, and the sheen in them has to be the reflection from the glass, doesn't it? "I've tried, but I never can."

Owen can't think of anything to say in response to that. But he thinks he understands now, after all this time, how Ianto could watch the woman he loved degenerate into a monster, over what must have been months, and do nothing to put her out of her misery. He couldn't. He tried, but he couldn't. Fair enough. If the thing in Katie's head turned her violent, Owen probably wouldn't have done anything about it, either.

-XXX-

"I told him," Ianto says later, after they've seriously lowered the level of scotch left in the bottle. "Do you remember?"

"What did you tell him?" Owen asks, frowning in case it's already been said.

Ianto sits up with visible effort, and looks Owen right in the eye.

"I told him I'd watch him suffer and die, didn't I?" Ianto demands.

Err, yeah, he did. Was that before or after he split Jack's lip?

Owen doesn't know what the right response is, so he merely sits up too.

"So?" he prompts, when nothing more is forthcoming.

"Sooooo," Ianto responds. "Y'know that saying, or curse, or whatever it is? Careful what you wish for, 'cause you might get it?"

Owen nods, and his brain's got the wobbles again. Maybe they've had enough to drink. Or maybe they need more. There's a fair bit left and it'd be a shame to waste it. It never tastes as good after the bottle's been opened. Or is that wine? Owen shrugs and refills his glass, and Ianto's too, and doesn't spill a drop.

"That's what happened," Ianto confides, words tumbling over each other in their need to escape, to be purged. "I said it, and it happened, and it keeps happening. I watch him suffer. I watch him die. Over and over and I have to be there, and I have to watch."

Owen tries to process it, and blinks, and quails inside as it suddenly becomes clear. He's thought before, that maybe Ianto stays with Jack out of obligation, or guilt, or something. Still making up for Lisa. But it's not that. It's the pain.

Jack doesn't show it to anyone else. He's sat impassively while Owen reset his bones - because even his freaky healing process can't put them back into place - and it must hurt, but it never shows on his face. Not even a silent trickle of moisture from beneath closed lids that Owen can grandly pretend to ignore.

But Jack shows his pain to Ianto, and it's cracking the mask, big time. He can't bear the trust, can't stand the pain that he can't fix, and it's dragging the poor little prick in.

Long ago, Owen traded his sense of compassion for his medical degree. Doctors have to learn detachment, or the job will kill you if it doesn't drive you mad first. So that part of the human psyche that lets you drown in someone else's pain, that's gone.

Or so he thought. "You don't _have_ to," Owen points out. Desperately, like it'll make a difference, like it'll help. "You don't have to, Ianto."

Ianto merely stares at him, pain overflowing and engulfing Owen, too, reawakening those pathways that hurt for someone else. And God, it does hurt, and he's only getting it secondhand.

"But I do," Ianto says, and what else can you call that but a whimper?

Owen breathes, in then out, and takes a drink. A long, burning, steadying swallow. The scotch isn't playing nice with the vodka, but he'll deal with that tomorrow. And maybe his head isn't clear, but he knows exactly what to say.

"You_ don't_ have to Ianto. You choose to. And thank God for that because…bloody hell mate, _someone's _got to."

"But why me?"

It's the world's oldest plea, isn't it? The blue eyes are wide, and frightened, and Owen's reminded again that Ianto's only a young bloke. Why him, indeed. He's too young for all the shit life's thrown at him. In the heat of the moment, with a fresh load of alcohol in his bloodstream, Owen could hate Jack for pulling Ianto back to the edge like this. 'Cause he's there, teetering, and it won't take much to push him over. And somehow Owen's just a tiny bit envious, because he remembers how good it is, in that abyss. Until it breaks you, of course. So Owen's scared, too. Scared for this weedy little twat he doesn't even like.

But might actually love, on some weird level. Best not to think about that. Best to work out how to drag him back to safety.

"So don't do it, then," Owen says, harshly. "Back off. Leave him. Give it enough time and Gwen will step in. Jack won't mind. He's only been holding off with her 'cause of you anyway."

Ianto flinches as if he's been slapped. Owen flinches, too, inside. Guess that was the wrong this to say, probably wrong on a dozen different levels. But he was only trying to help. Or was he? Maybe, Owen concedes, just maybe he was only trying to help himself. Because if Ianto's working himself up to take the plunge, while Owen's still running backwards as hard as he can, then somehow that makes Owen a bigger coward than he was yesterday. Or maybe it's just that misery loves company. Whatever, it's not helping the bloke who's trusting him with his demons tonight.

The problem is, helping Ianto would unleash Owen's own demons, the ones he thought he left in that Weevil cage, and is he really ready for that? The shuddering in his gut tells him he's not, unless it's the vodka getting its revenge. But Ianto's talking again, so all he has to do is listen, and he can do that, right?

"It scares me, Owen," Ianto confesses. He's not quite looking at Owen, but he's not looking at anything else either. And it _is_ a confession, an admission of guilt, something he's ashamed of, poor sod. He's survived Cyber men and Daleks and a homicidal girlfriend, been captured and damned near eaten, and he's scared of this? Sad twisted little shit.

"_He_ scares me."

Owen gulps, and there's not even anything in his mouth to swallow. God, this is hard. The bloke _is_ a little shit, but he might just be the bravest man Owen's ever met.

"Why does he scare you?" Owen asks, while something inside him cracks just a tiny bit, exposing a soft side Owen didn't know he still had. "Because…..because you love him?"

Ianto shakes his head, almost frantic. "I don't," he insists. "Bloody hell, Owen. I don't."

"OK, so you don't," Owen says hastily. That was the booze talking. He should have just stuck with the listening thing but it's too late, now. He reaches out a hand, awkwardly, because he doesn't do soothing, and tentatively pats Ianto on the shoulder.

"I don't," Ianto repeats, shrinking away from the hand and back into the couch cushions.

Owen can't help wondering if he's trying to convince himself, 'cause he's not convincing anyone else.

"But you could, right?" Owen asks softly.

"I could," Ianto agrees, and he sounds like a child describing the monster under his bed.

**Thank you for reading. They've hit the bottom, and I can't leave 'em there, so there'll be another chapter.**


	7. Chapter 7

**This chapter dedicated to Lady Analyn for continuing to put ideas in my head that won't go away. **

**And to Brionjae, sounding board without peer. Thank you Cyberdaughter.**

* * *

Ianto's slumped against the back of the couch, eyes fixed blindly on the window. Owen can't bear to look at him just now, so he looks at the view, too. Cardiff sparkles beneath them. Behind each point of light someone plays, beneath each patch of dark someone sleeps. They wouldn't sleep quite so well if they knew all that stands between them and chaos is four screwed-up individuals with nothing left to lose plus one with no idea what she's risking.

When did the rest of them somehow make a pact to ensure she never finds out? And why? Questions for a more sober night.

Owen looks across at one screwed-up individual and wonders how he can care so bloody much about the bloke and detest him at the same time. Or maybe it alternates, because he doesn't hate Ianto tonight. Ianto meets his gaze. Eyes are the window to the soul, and Ianto still hasn't drawn the shutters. The trust continues to make Owen dizzy, unless that's the scotch. Or the vodka.

The silence between them seems to sigh, or maybe it's just the fridge going through its cycle again.

"There are people out there," Owen says, waving his glass at the window, "Who'd clap you on the back and tell you to go for it. With Jack. With anyone. Better to have loved and lost, and all that."

Ianto's eyes follow the movement of Owen's hands, until he's lost in the view again. "Guess they've never done it," Ianto murmurs. "Or else they're a hell of a lot braver than me."

Owen raises his glass towards the window in a mocking toast. "Than us," he corrects.

Ianto doesn't return the toast. His glass is empty and the bottle is depressingly close to matching it. It appears the party, such as it is, is drawing rapidly to a close.

They've had a jug of water along with it, or maybe two. Ianto obviously does have that legendary Welsh stamina, at least as far as alcohol goes, because he's steady enough to make coffee without burning himself, without even spilling a drop.

It's weird, Owen thinks, mulling over the night while the coffee mug warms his hands. They'd gone from antagonistic to playful – bloody hell, they'd sung together, hope he forgets that bit – to…..and even now he shudders from the painful honesty they'd shared towards the bottom of the bottle.

If this was a movie, there'd be dramatic music playing in the background. Or soulful, perhaps. Instead, they get some twanging country and western voice yowling that 'Oh Lord, it's hard to be humble when you're perfect in every way."

It's Ianto's phone ringing, and Owen laughs helplessly. If deep and meaningful was the bottom of their shared pit, laughter must be mean they're on their way back out. It has to be Jack. Who else would Ianto assign that particular ring-tone to?

Ianto stalks to the window again and the song cuts off abruptly as Owen tries not to snort coffee over his sofa. Unsuccessfully.

"I'm still here," Ianto says into the phone, trying to muffle his voice by placing his hand over the mouthpiece. Doesn't work. The flat has good acoustics. "Be leaving soon. No, he's OK, I think. Left the bar without too much trouble. Being a bit thick, but we can't expect booze to fix that, hey?"

Owen flicks him the finger, knowing Ianto can see it in the reflection from the window.

"I got some water into him, but he wanted a drinking buddy," Ianto explains into the mouthpiece. "I'd imagine he tells himself he doesn't actually have a problem if he isn't drinking alone."

Owen would throw something but his co-ordination is off. He settles for the finger again, and now that Ianto's given up trying to stop Owen hearing he's got a hand free to return the gesture.

"Of course not, Jack," Ianto continues. His voice is tainted by sodden indignation and it sounds, of all things, cute. The man can't become unattractive even when he's drunk. That's not fair, that isn't. "My car's still back at the Hub, anyway. I'll call a cab."

Owen has to think a bit to work that one out. Oh yeah, Ianto drove them back from the pub in Owen's car. Jack must have been telling Ianto not to drive. What a laugh. Jack Harkness, rule-breaker extraordinaire, is getting all tizzy about Ianto driving himself home. And while Owen's thinking, he watches Ianto's face change. It's softer, but somehow a bit stronger, too. Either he isn't scared anymore or he's doing a damned good job of hiding it. He's good at hiding, Ianto Jones is.

Ianto's moving away now, muffling the mouthpiece again. Serious about Owen not hearing this time, which means Owen's listening even harder. He can't catch every word, but he can hear the tone. Ianto's voice is lighter than it's been all night. Younger. More playful. Damned near _happy_. Something firms within Owen, something less selfish than he's been in a long time. He wants Ianto to sound like that more often and it's becoming increasingly obvious Jack's the only one who can do it. At least, the only person Ianto lets close enough to try.

Owen listens with half an ear to the disjointed conversation while considering what, if anything, he should do. Ianto's on the edge. All he needs is a bit of a push and he'll fall. Fall for Jack. Owen frowns to himself. It's a hell of a risk for a broken young man to take. Jack's a flighty, selfish shit most of the time. Ianto's right to be wary. Jack might well shatter him before he's done. How many times _can_ a young bloke break before all the king's horsemen can't put him back together again?

Yeah, it's a risk. But the possibility pales against the knowledge that Jack may well be the only person who can put Humpty Jonesy together in the first place.

"…no need, Jack. Are you sure…Hub?...Rest, Jack." A chuckle. A warm, happy sound that makes Owen burningly jealous, only he doesn't know who he's jealous of, or why, or even of what exactly. "In ….dreams Harkness…oh all right." And whatever he didn't want Owen to hear is obviously over, because Ianto strolls back into the living room. "See you soon," he concludes, snapping the phone shut.

"That was Jack," Ianto explains, unnecessarily.

"I could tell from the ring-tone," Owen agrees. He's pleased to find that his snark is back.

"He programmed that in himself," Ianto says defensively.

"How is he?" Owen asks. "I _am _his doctor, y'know," he persists, when no answer is forthcoming.

Ianto glowers. "Fully recovered, I'd say. He's insisting on leaving the Hub."

Owen rolls his eyes, in a creditable impression of Ianto's finest. "Coming to get you, is he?"

Ianto doesn't answer, which is answer enough.

"Thinks you can't make it home by yourself, does he?" Owen snickers.

Ianto merely sniffs.

"Or does he think you can't handle me alone?" Owen demands, with amusement, because he's becoming progressively more convinced that the bloke in front of him could manage just about anything. Maybe even Jack.

"No, that can't be it," Owen continues, with a noise which sounds regrettably close to a cackle. "I've got it. He thinks I'm leading you astray, right?"

"You did get me half-pissed," Ianto points out. He turns away with a distinct air of discomfort, and it's annoying, because Owen can see the shutters going up, and he'd liked what was behind them. What could Jack possibly have said to cause the sudden turnaround?

"Oh shit," Owen croaks, choking back laughter as enlightenment dawns. "He's bloody jealous, isn't he?" He can't hold back the laughter anymore. "This is priceless. Jack thinks I've gotten you drunk so I can have my wicked way with you."

Shadows flicker across Ianto's face. Owen's careful to keep laughing, because obviously neither of them is going to admit that tonight the idea might not be quite as preposterous as it was a month ago. Or a week. Or yesterday.

"Don't be ridiculous," Ianto huffs, after a disdainful pause.

"I knew he had it bad," Owen says, wheezing a bit because he's not used to laughing this much. "But I didn't think he had it _this_ bad."

"I said shut _up_," Ianto growls. But Owen's enjoying this too much to stop.

"I didn't know Harkness could_ get_ it this bad….. Not Mr Bloody Quaint 21st Century Ideals."

"_Shut the hell up_, Owen."

Owen didn't see him move, but suddenly Ianto's fist is wrapped in Owen's collar and they can each feel the other's breath on their lips. Smells the same, strangely. Like the scotch they've just shared. Like calling to like.

"I thought he likes sharing," Owen whispers. He doesn't know, not right this second, whether he's carrying on the goading or whether maybe he actually means what he's just implied. Ianto's eyes are wide now, and impossibly blue. They're staring at each other, facing off like a pair of tom cats. Ianto's other hand rises to grip the other side of Owen's collar. It might not be a punch he's about to deliver. Ianto's headbutts are part of Torchwood legend.

Or there's the other thing. They're still breathing into each others' face. Tasting each other's scent. It wouldn't take much close the distance.

_Jack might kill him for touching Ianto._

_It might be worth it._

Ianto blinks, once, twice, shattering the eye lock. He shoves Owen onto the back of the sofa and his hands drop into his lap with a thud.

Owen pulls his head in, literally and figuratively, sinking back against the sofa and wondering what the hell just happened. Or, more correctly, what the hell just _didn't _happen. Contemplating the folly of letting the wrong head do the thinking. He's drunk, and these things always seem like a good idea when he's drunk. But this is _Teaboy_, for God's sake.

Jack's Teaboy. And Jack's on his way to claim his territory. That's not like Jack. It's enough _unlike_ Jack to be a warning.

Ianto shakes his head, the way you do when your eyes are blurry, or when you're dizzy. He shuffles back, away, slumping against his end of the sofa, eyes closed.

"You're such an arsehole, Harper. I damned near punched you."

_Liar, Liar, pants on fire._

"It wasn't gonna be a punch," Owen answers.

Ianto's eyes flutter open. "In your dreams, maybe."

Owen grins wildly, but doesn't deny it. He has strange dreams, sometimes.

"You detest me," Ianto mumbles through the hands rubbing distractedly over his face.

Oh yeah, Owen detests Teaboy. Detests him like the little girl at school whose ponytail Owen used to yank every day. To annoy her, of course. To make her notice him.

That's probably why he picks on Tosh so much.

Owen lounges back with the grin still decorating his face. "Course I do. Doesn't stop you being pretty, though, does it?"

Ianto's hands drop away. Ianto's staring at him again. With disbelief. Suspicion. And maybe something else.

They're on the edge again. A different edge. Two broken blokes. Insanity to consider it. They'd cut each other to pieces on their various jagged edges.

Or would they fit together like a pair of lost jigsaws? Different pictures cut from the same die, all wrong for each other, trying to fit together because they've lost all the best pieces.

No. Better they pretend it's antagonism between them. Safer.

If Jack breaks his Teaboy, Owen can hate him for it. Nobly. With a clear conscience.

If Owen breaks Ianto, he'd never forgive himself. Owen's collection of things he hasn't forgiven himself for doesn't need the addition.

"Relax, twat," Owen says, the words crackling through a thundering silence. "You're pretty, but you're too high maintenance for me. Jack can have you."

Ianto eyes him uncertainly for a moment, then breaks into a filthy grin. "And he does," Ianto agrees. "Frequently."

Owen mock retches. Ianto slaps him across the back of the head and heads off to make more coffee. When Ianto returns they laugh together over their second mug. It was all a joke, of course. Just taking the piss. Playing chicken. Killing time 'til Jack arrives.

They're not lying to each other. It'll be true by morning.

* * *

_I have no idea how much more there is. This keeps writing itself. I'm just along for the ride._


	8. Chapter 8

**Just when I think it's going to be endless, here's the end...they've decided to sober up, I suppose. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

They're out of things to say, so they're singing again. Taking turns. Ianto's run out of show tunes so it's Owen's turn. One last song before Harkness arrives to break up the party. One more thing to forget by morning. One last prod towards the edge, then Owen's duty is done, and his conscience can go back into whatever pit it's dug itself out of tonight.

"_He thinks you're gor-geous,"_ Owen singsongs, watching with interest as the other man's complexion begins to darken. "_He wants to kisss you." _

"You had the nerve to disparage me about _Cats_," Ianto says, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "And you're quoting from _Miss Congeniality._"

"_He wants to hug you," _Owen warbles. That particular chick-flick doesn't hurt. It was playing in the background the time he shared night duty with Tosh during those weeks the Rift was having a tantrum. They had some good laughs that night. It was nice.

"Shove it, Owen," Ianto says, but the bloke's actually blushing. How about that? Bullseye to Harper. OK, he knew Jack was keen, but there was still the possibility that it really was just shagging, and anything extra was just Jack on the hunt, doing whatever it took to bag the prey that kept dodging. But this - Kisses and hugs, huh? That's not shagging, that's…..shit, that's romance.

"_He wants to loooove you…" _Owen concludes, frowning slightly. There are more lines, but he can't remember them. Probably a good place to stop, anyway. Because if it _is_ like that, if Jack's over the edge already, maybe it's OK if Ianto does take the leap. Maybe Jack won't break Ianto after all, not if they're down in that pit together. Or if he does, at least he'll have put him back together first. Bones are always strongest around the breaks, after they've mended. Tougher. Don't break as easily, at least not in the same place. So maybe the second shattering won't be as bad, if it happens at all. Progress.

Ianto's looking at him, blue eyes defenseless again.

"Are you gonna let him?" Owen finishes.

Ianto's mouth opens and shuts with no words coming out. Owen isn't sure whether it's due to alcohol, anger or embarrassment and frankly, my dear, he doesn't give a damn. He's too full of the world's first anesthetic to feel much if the other bloke does go the punch now. Doesn't even care, as long as it does some good. As long as it makes him think a bit.

"It's not like he can die on you," Owen points out, and the words hurt his throat. OK, he's pushing. Pushing for both of them, if the truth be told. One of them ought to jump. _Better him than me,_ Owen thinks. _Or maybe, just maybe, if he goes first, I'll grow the balls to follow._

"But he can leave," Ianto says, softly, like a whisper except too loud. "He _did_ leave."

Pictures from the past flicker across the edge of Owen's vision. Pictures of Ianto, and he's surprised how clearly he remembers. Owen saw Ianto crying into Jack's coat, while he lay dead with Gwen making sure no-one else came near him. Saw all the bloody barriers waver, just for an instant, when Jack hauled him into that kiss. Saw them fly up again when Jack disappeared. Honestly, Owen could've shot the wanker again, for leaving after that.

"But he came back," Owen says. "He came back for you. He said so. We all heard him."

Ianto's eyes harden. Not concrete hard. Windscreen hard. Brittle. "He said it to Gwen too. Privately."

There's that breath on his face again as the Welshman sways towards him. Intoxicating breath. That'd be the alcohol, Owen assures himself. Alcoholic fumes, intoxicating. Ianto's in his space again, in his face. Threatening, almost, even if Owen's not sure exactly what the threat is. Not threatening enough to make Owen back off, anyway.

"So he's got a thing for Gwen, big deal," Owen says, in as offhanded a manner as he can dredge up. "It's not like she'll ever leave Rhys. For Jack, or anyone."

Owen's not bitter about that. He didn't _want_ Gwen to leave Rhys for him. Gwen will never leave Rhys, even if she doesn't know it yet herself. Owen knows, he can see it, always could. And he used it. Made it safe for him to go after Gwen, way back then, before Diane. Rhys is Gwen's Lisa, her Katie, and she's bloody lucky she hasn't had to learn that the way Ianto and Owen did. Except she has, kind of. She opened the Rift for him, didn't she? Only the Rift brought him back, and she's forgotten what it felt like to have the centre of your universe torn away.

Owen hopes for Gwen's sake she's never reminded again, but the universe is rarely that kind, and Torchwood is worse.

There's something damned close to a snarl in Owen's ear. He blinks his way back into the present, and Ianto's face is so close to his own their noses are practically bumping. Owen thinks with a flash of what might be humor that he could kiss Ianto just to shut him up, but the little bugger might take his tongue off, with a face like that. Thunderclouds have nothing on it. Snow-storm, maybe.

"So I should just take Gwen's leavings, is that it?" Ianto says, and yes, that's definitely a snarl. "Settle for being Jack's consolation prize?"

An ungracious snort makes its way out of Owen's mouth. "If that isn't the pot bagging the kettle…"

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Ianto demands. His eyes are blazing, and whoever said blue was a cool color forgot about the heart of a flame. The hottest part, the part that burns before you've felt the heat.

"It means that you've got a hell of a nerve, playing the noble suffering card," Owen hisses, with enough venom to make Ianto back away. "You say he's settling for you, like he's committing some crime, but you're doing exactly the same to him. Settling for him 'cause you can't have Lisa."

Ianto sags back against the couch, closes his eyes. Owen studiously ignores the single drop of moisture leaking from beneath each lid.

"What if I am?" Ianto mumbles eventually. "What's it to you?"

Owen waits until the eyes slide open.

"I want you to stop hiding," he says quietly. "I want you to start living."

Ianto's eyes narrow. "What was that about kettles and pots?"

Owen shrugs. "Well," he drawls. "If it doesn't kill _you_, maybe I'll have a go myself."

He expects Ianto to brush it off, laugh, throw an insult, something like that. Instead, he gets eyes clearer than anyone's should be with half a bottle of scotch under their belt.

"I might need a bit of a push," Ianto says softly.

Their eyes meet for an endless moment. That's trust, that is. Owen can't help wondering what he's done to deserve it.

At the point when the eye contact goes from uncomfortable to plain old weird, Ianto's lips twitch into a smile. "Just to clarify, Owen. When you say you'll have a go yourself, does that mean having a go at Jack? Because I didn't think he was your type, to be honest."

Punching Ianto in the arm feels much more natural than patting him on the shoulder did. "Idiot," Owen says scathingly. "He's even less my type that you are."

The laughter's back. They're two mates mucking about, getting shit-faced and having a laugh, and it feels good.

-XXX-

They're on to debating safer matters, such as the advisability of a third cup of coffee, when a key turns in the lock. Bloody Harkness. Just because he's got a key to all their homes, doesn't mean he's got the right to use it without knocking first.

Then Owen remembers what _didn't _happen, not long before and not just once, either. His lips stretch into a manic grin as he thinks that maybe, just maybe, Jack is trying to catch Owen in the midst of debauching his poor innocent little Welsh boy. He'd want proof before he took Owen's head off, wouldn't he?

If either of them had any doubts about who Ianto belongs to, the way he throws himself into Jack's arms has to dispel them. Owen doesn't miss the surprise on Jack's face at the gesture, or the unguarded pleasure that follows it. He's never seen Jack like that, so open. Funny, he's been having this internal debate all night, over whether Jack's good for Ianto, and he hasn't stopped to think how good Ianto is for Jack.

Jack's arms twine around Ianto's shoulders, and he looks down at Owen, shaking his head in what can only be described as a fatherly fashion. "What have you two been doing?" he asks. Owen can tell Jack's trying for exasperated, but it's losing out badly. Ianto's trying to snuggle into the collar of the greatcoat and it must be tickling because Jack can't get the smile off his face. A particularly dopey smile that makes him look human, for a change.

"Drinking," Owen answers simply. "Drinking the good stuff, I might add."

"He got me plastered," Ianto confesses, pulling back just enough to look into Jack's face. Owen sees Jack's nose wrinkle as he cops the alcohol breath.

"I doubt he did that all by himself," Jack chides.

Ianto nods solemnly. "It was Laphroaig. I couldn't knock back Laphroaig, Jack." He frowns into Jack's face. Jack's trying hard to keep up the fatherly disapproval, but that's crumbling too. Ianto is a damned cute drunk, and it's just part of the unfairness of the world.

"Or I couldn't _not_ knock back Laphroaig," Ianto corrects himself. "Whichever makes more sense, I suppose."

"Is that how you say it?" Owen asks. "I always manage to get more consonants in there."

"Sounds better with Welsh vowels," Ianto brags.

Jack loses out to the smile and tucks Ianto back under his arm. "Everything sounds better with Welsh vowels, when they're yours. Come on, Ianto, let's get you home. Away from Doctor Harper's unwholesome influence."

Now that's bloody unfair. Ianto gets the indulgent smile, Owen gets The Look. "Honestly, Owen. What were you thinking?" Jack asks, doing a much better job with the exasperation this time. "I've never seen him this bad."

"I wasn't pouring it down his throat, Jack," Owen answers blandly.

"Course not," Ianto pipes up, emerging from folds of the greatcoat. "You were leaving room for your tongue."

The room freezes. Just like that. Ianto blinks at the other men with an innocence so fake Owen would laugh if he wasn't waiting for Jack to knock his head off his shoulders. Proof positive, if he needed it, of how bad Jack's got it, that he can't see right through the act to the scheming Welshman beneath.

"I didn't," Owen says, hastily. "Bloody hell, Ianto. Tell him I didn't."

Ianto looks over at Owen, eyelashes fluttering. "There's nothing to worry about, Owen. It's not like we're exclusive, are we, Jack?"

Owen can see the movement in Jack's throat as he gulps over that. Stuck between jealousy and hypocrisy with no answer to give except one that'll blow his charade to pieces. Bloody Ianto. Have to admire him, though. Owen knows now exactly what the little shit's doing. Taking the leap, dragging Jack over the edge with him, and hip hip bloody hooray for him. Hooray for them both.

_But, honestly_, Owen thinks with irritation, _did he have to climb on my shoulders to do it?_ On second thought, maybe he did. This is the push he asked for. And all Owen has to do is look smug and stay silent, which he's good at. The smug part, anyway.

Ianto glances around with that façade of innocence again, and continues. "Jack thinks monogamy is a….what was it, Jack? Oh yeah." He pauses for effect before reciting "Twenty-first century method of dooming every relationship to failure." Ianto blinks up at Jack, wide-eyed, radiating pride at having gotten the quote right, while Jack looks like he's swallowed a goldfish, possibly a blowfish. Owen chokes back a laugh.

"That's right, Jack, isn't it?" Ianto presses. Little shit. Clever little shit.

Jack glances from one to the other, hunted, haunted. Owen returns the gaze with as innocent an expression as he can muster, which isn't very innocent. Ianto turns the wide eyes on them both, then shatters the tension by laughing. Snorting, even.

"Honestly, Jack," he splutters. "Owen? You must know I've got better taste than that."

Jack unfreezes. Owen snorts. "Thank you very bloody much."

Ianto winks at him. Actually winks. "You thought about it though."

Owen thinks he might actually be blushing. Nah, that's got to be the booze.

Jack smiles at Ianto fondly. "Who could blame him for that?"

Ianto smiles back up at him, a real smile. No more acting. And just like that, Captain Harkness is back. He's firmly in possession of his Welshman, and he's going to get him out of Owen's clutches, and so help him, Owen is_ not_ going to ruin all Ianto's hard work by laughing into Jack's face.

"It's time to say goodbye to your drinking buddy," Jack says briskly. "We're leaving." His arm is still wrapped firmly around Ianto's waist, and he's tugging the Welshman towards the door.

Ianto resists, just for a moment. "You gonna be OK, Owen?"

Their eyes meet, and everything they've said tonight hangs between them. Jack's eyes flicker from one to the other. He's not stupid; he knows there's plenty going on beneath the words. Owen watches confusion and concern and what has to be jealousy chase each other across Jacks face. It's a good sign, Owen thinks. Jack's never looked like that when Gwen gets lovey-dovey with Rhys. Maybe Jack's had the push he needed, too.

"I reckon I will," Owen says. "You?"

Ianto smiles at Owen from under Jack's arm. He looks all right. He looks safe.

"I'll be fine," he murmurs.

"I'll look after him," Jack says. It's not his usual voice. A bit possessive. A bit uncertain.

Owen meets Jack's gaze. "You'd better," he says gruffly. "Or else."

The threat hangs in the air, and it's not an empty one. If Jack breaks Ianto, Owen intends to be there to pick up the pieces. Wherever that takes him. Wherever that takes them both.

Jack nods slightly. "I'll look after him," he repeats. Owen returns the nod, and his brain isn't wobbling anymore. He might actually get some sleep, after they leave.

"And you look after yourself," Jack concludes, with another attempt at severity. "Don't even think about driving into the Hub. We," and here he stops, flicks a quick glance at Ianto, and smiles fit to crack his face when Ianto's head bobs in a shy nod. "We'll pick you up on our way in."

The door clicks shut behind them. Owen lugs the empty coffee mugs to the sink. We. Our. How about that? Jack Harkness talking in plurals. Miracles do happen. People do get saved. People save each other.

People do get second chances. The problem is finding the courage to take them.

Owen finally makes it to bed. There's water on the bedside table next to a bottle of painkillers. Owen's pretty sure he didn't put them there. Ianto must have done it, before the scotch. Owen's grateful for them, anyway. He fully expects to feel like hell tomorrow.

But he'll be all right, in the end. They both will. They all will, Rift permitting, if they work at it.

Owen thinks he might even bring up that pool tournament again, next time he's got a moment alone with Tosh. Seriously, he can't be more of a wimp than the Teaboy, now can he?

**Thank you for reading lovely people!**


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